


you go down smooth

by nowavailableinthesky



Category: Warrior Nun (TV)
Genre: All Aboard, F/F, Liquor store au, welcome to the good ship Chillian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowavailableinthesky/pseuds/nowavailableinthesky
Summary: Chanel gives new meaning to the phrase a long, tall drink of water. Or something. It's a liquor store, Jillian's not picky. (If she were, it wouldn't matter. Chanel's top shelf in any universe.)
Relationships: Jillian Salvius/Chanel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	you go down smooth

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday, @foibles_fables! thanks for the convos about this pair, I am a whole excite

_I can tell we’ve got potential_

_Is this love too hot to handle?_

_Make a wish, blow out my candle_

_Make a wish for me_

—[What’s Your Pleasure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWazsCKdlhg), Jessie Ware

It's shaping up to be an awful weekend. 

Michael’s been dropped off at Max’s. What a shit-show. One snipe too many had quickly devolved into the worst yelling match they’ve had in some while. (She'd wanted so badly not to see Michael’s shadow from under his bedroom door, a clear sign he was listening in to their every harsh word. She’d wanted so badly to not be the emotional one, all tears and snot and cracking voice, Max’s red face growing redder until—with a slammed door between them—she’d composed herself enough to send Michael a text apologizing, promising _I’ll pick you up early on Monday, if you want, just let me know darling_ and _I love you so so much, Michael_.) 

So. She’s spent the last twenty minutes rage-venting in an empty car, hands tight on the steering wheel, trying her hardest not to break any speed limits on the way to the liquor store in the plaza across from her apartment complex. And now, standing in front of a wall of wine, she lets the feeling of being utterly overwhelmed leak through—a twinge of panic and mild self-loathing zinging down her spine. She sighs, long and loud.

“Bad day?” To her left a liquor store clerk is stocking the brandy shelves, open cardboard box at her feet.

“Asshole ex-husband,” Jillian says.

“Ah.” The clerk looks up at her—pauses for a moment, looking Jillian over. “Can’t say I’ve dealt with that. My sympathies. I’d offer you a drink, but you’d have to buy the bottle first.”

She can’t help it. Despite herself (and her fucking awful mood), Jillian chuckles. 

“Very well, then. Sell me something. Or point me in the right direction. If it’s wine, fuck it, I’ll drink it."

The clerk—her name tag reads Chanel—stands. To Jillian’s surprise, she’s taller than her. A rare occurrence. “Nice. What are you in the mood for? Apart from a little light homicide. We don’t sell that here, unfortunately.”

“Oh, I’d buy out your stock if you did.”

Chanel laughs. It’s stunning, to be frank. Jillian takes a moment to do a once-over of her own. The other woman is taller, she’s already noted, but she’s also more elegant than Jillian’s ever had any hope of being. The beige polo and brown apron uniform combination does no one on the planet any favors but this is a woman who needs no favors. As she watches, the clerk moves down the aisle (brushing past Jillian, whose breath catches) toward the white wines. She considers this shelf, that, then reaches one perfectly manicured hand out and makes a selection.

“This particular vintage is best enjoyed in good company, I think.”

Jillian glances sideways at Chanel. “Is it?”

“Mm-hm.” Chanel turns the bottle in her hand, supposedly to better read the label and—what? Re-familiarize herself with the wine she’d likely stocked herself? (Jillian takes the opportunity to admire the clerk’s full lips, dark brows. Mother of _god_ , she’s gorgeous.)

Just then the door to the store swings open, obnoxious little ringing chime distracting both of them. In walks the type of man who is ninety percent jawline, eyebrows, and biceps—not to look down on those features, to be clear. On some people (she can think of one) it’s acceptable, somehow both striking and soft, angles begging to be kissed. Meanwhile this man simply looks as though he’s never said the word ‘please’ in his life and isn’t about to start now. 

He spots them immediately (of course) and decides on the spot that he, as god’s own gift to humankind, has a duty to fulfill by inserting himself into their conversation (of course). 

“Ladies. Looks like I stopped in at just the right time. Discussing wine? I’m a bit of a sommelier myself, happy to give my opinion."

“Oh, we were discussing the weather, actually,” Chanel says. 

“Mmhm. Showers over the weekend. We’ll be absolutely drowning in rain. I, for one, have plans to stay inside, enjoy a little…me time.” Jillian purposefully pitches her voice a little lower, throws a hint of flirtation out there. Might as well play the game. She’s got nothing to lose.

Chanel, god and all deities bless her, takes the hint and raises the stakes. “I wouldn’t mind some of that myself. It’ll be quite wet, won’t it? Personally, there’s nothing better than a rainy evening spent inside with a glass of Riesling and, hmm, an excellent conversational partner.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” dudebro says, thankfully—and unfortunately—missing the entire point. “I totally get that. What a mood, right? Some candles and shit. Super romantic. Say, are either of you free tonight?"

Chanel’s mouth quirks and she raises one eyebrow at Jillian, an unspoken ‘ _Are you hearing this man right now? What an oblivious asshole_.’ Here in this moment, Jillian’s never felt so seen. (Oh, would that it were under better—dare she say sexier?—circumstances.)

“Can’t say I am,” says Chanel. “Lots of stock in today, shelves to dust. I’m busy."

“Likewise, my dance card’s full. Lovely offer though, I found it quite eloquent.”

“Thanks,” Mr. Macho says, grinning dopeily. Is that supposed to be attractive? He looks like a drunk squirrel. “Maybe another time?"

It’s only by some miracle that Jillian refrains from rolling her eyes. (To her delight, Chanel’s given up caring and rolls hers openly.) They look at one another. “Actually,” Chanel drawls. (Jillian shivers.) “I’m about to go on break in five minutes,” she says. “Care to join me?”

“I’d love to."

“Nice, mind if I join you ladies?” It’s not a question, but it doesn’t matter because Jillian’s ignoring him anyway. Her mind is already zooming five minutes ahead in time. Four. Three. Two—she trails a hand over the bottles on the whiskey shelf, barely sees them. Brows-and-biceps follows behind her and prattles on. She hears absolutely nothing and it’s blissful.

Then she’s following Chanel out a back door, mapping the plane and movement of her back under that hideous polo, already a little dizzy with tunnel vision. Astounding. Incredible. She’s never been so immediately taken with anyone like this before.

Her anticipation’s warranted. Almost as soon as they’re out in the back alley (door swinging back on dudebro’s face, lovely) Chanel’s placed her hands on Jillian’s hips and is maneuvering her so her back brushes against the bricks. 

“Is this all right?” Chanel’s breath is warm on her face. Jillian sucks in a breath of her own. Every part of her is buzzing.

“Yes, yes, _god_ just kiss me—“ Absolute angel of woman, Chanel is quick to follow instructions. She’s purposeful yet urgent. It’s the kiss of a woman with all the time in the world, who has decided that she wants you _right now_. Jillian pulls back a little, tests the limits of this new game they’re playing with their bodies. Chanel whines and Jillian smirks. She reaches a hand up to tug in the other woman’s hair. A gasp, a breath. Then they’re lost again. (Jillian’s vaguely aware of her hips moving against Chanel’s. Whatever. It’s not like anyone’s watching—)

“What the fuck? What the fuck. I thought this was going to be—hey, yo, as fucking hot as this is, can you just stop for like, a minute—"

She feels the arm wrapped around her waist lift momentarily. She can’t see it, but imagines perfectly well the gesture Chanel is sending his way.

“Fuck you, you bi—“ He says some unpleasant things. Jillian, quite literally, could not care less. She’s occupied with far more important things, like how far she can slide her hands up Chanel’s shirt before it becomes socially unacceptable. She’s so warm, damn it. Smooth skin and muscle. (She scratches experimentally and Chanel’s hips jump. Hmm. Interesting.) After a while they slow down, lazily making out. The light pressure of a body leaned against her is oddly soothing. After the day she’s had, Jillian thinks, she deserves this and more, much more.

“Thank fuck. He’s gone,” she says a long while later.

“I know,” Chanel—god’s _actual_ gift to humankind—replies.

“God, you’re so…”

“I’m what, now? Use your words, darling.”

“Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.”

Jillian leaves with three bottles of expensive Riesling (so very worth it), a beautiful woman’s phone number, and _plans_ for Saturday night.

It’s shaping up to be a wonderful weekend.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'ALL
> 
> been waiting to post this pairing. who's up next to give us this good Chillian? 👀


End file.
